by Susan Grant
When she returned from her nose repairs in medical, she went immediately to work on her computer in a section of the cargo bay hidden from the refugee vessel. Paler than even her normal coloring, she put the final touches on the program she’d created as three security guards waited silently nearby. Heest was done for the day. Possibly the week.
Trist’s face contorted—in concentration, Kào guessed, not from the newly fused cartilage in her bruised nose.
“Update me,” he said.
“Almost there.” She continued typing. “I’ve completed the alphabetic conversion—theirs to ours and back again. But I’ll need both phonetic confirmation and access to their personal computers before I finalize my instructional lessons.” She set a small rectangular box on the table. There was a soft whirring noise as a door in the container opened. From the shallow inner compartment she extracted two pairs of conversion-glasses, sleek and dark. “Using these, whatever is said is written down and translated into their language and ours—Key.”
“I read the words off the inside of the lenses,” he confirmed.
“Yes. The text appears to float in front of your field of vision, between you and your subject. Even if you turn your head, the caption will remain in sight. I have only a few of these glasses at my disposal.” She shrugged. “Just as well. A handheld aural translator works better. But until I program enough handhelds—hundreds, it would seem—the glasses are our only choice.”
“No matter. They will make communication possible. I, for one, would like to avoid further misunderstandings. I suspect you would, too.”
Trist’s fingers crept toward her nose, her expression souring.
“Initial contact with any people cannot be a hasty process. I’ll have to take my time. I expect it will take a while to explain the situation. Then I’ll have to initiate the evacuation. I’ll call you before I let anyone off the vessel, though.”
“You’re going alone?”
“I’m going alone.”
A guard of Talagar ancestry named Poul protested. Kào knew that he was thinking of his partner, Heest, in medical with a concussion. “But, Mr. Vantaar-Moray, you asked for protection.”
“I know what I asked of you. But circumstances have changed. The refugees reacted the way they did only because they’re overwhelmed and frightened. If they see I’m unarmed and alone, I believe they’ll listen to reason. I have my comm. If I have any trouble, you’ll be the first to know. Trist, you remain here at the workstation and monitor the Earth craft remotely. Poul, you and your men take a position from where you can keep a watch on the vessel.”
Poul nodded curtly and left with the three remaining security guards. Kào took the container with the glasses and began walking toward the refugees’ craft. Once in the main part of the bay, Kào commenced the plan he had plotted out during Trist’s absence. Reaching for the nearest wall-mounted touch-screen computer, he entered a confidential access code followed by a lengthy command, and the interior and exterior lights on the Earth vessel flickered on.
Power, he thought. The gift of normalcy. It was one of the ways he hoped to show the refugees that he meant no harm.
A few window shades covering the portholes lifted but slammed closed just as quickly. Undeterred, he began walking toward the vessel. The blond woman—he’d get her attention first. She was the Earth people’s leader—he was sure of it. Her expression of triumph as the inflatable device roared out of the hatch wasn’t one he’d soon forget. Yet her actions could be interpreted as nerve, a willingness to fight despite overwhelming odds. Not only had her defensive measures led to cracking his ribs and breaking Trist’s nose, she’d knocked out a security guard who had to be twice her size, all to defend her vessel, which she’d probably assumed—rashly—was under attack. But he was going to give her a second chance to act civilized.
If she didn’t kill him outright, he’d try his damnedest to woo her and her compatriots off the ship.
Chapter Five
Inside the main cabin of the 747, the lights had come back on. Their captors had turned on the power!
Why? Jordan thought. Did they want to buy trust in order to lure their captives off the plane? They were armed; they could have easily chosen force to ferret the passengers out of the aircraft. But they hadn’t. Yet. Still, she couldn’t afford to take any chances until she knew what they were all about.
A burning smell surfaced, mixed with other, nastier odors—the result of stagnant air. Natalie swore. “The electricity—it turned on the ovens, too!” She sprinted away with Ann and several other flight attendants to secure the galleys, killing a potential fire hazard.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Jordan told Ben. “If the ovens work, maybe the radios do, too. I’ll send out as many emergency signals as I can—and in as many forms as I can.”
“Call if you need me.”
“Will do. Meanwhile, keep minding the store down here.”
“Sure,” he said, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, something she noticed he did when he was nervous.
She paused by the stairwell to the upper deck, one hand resting on the railing. “You okay?” she asked him.
“Well.” He swallowed twice. “I don’t want to die.”
She held herself very still. “None of us do.”
He hesitated before answering. “I believe in heaven, an afterlife. You know. But what if there isn’t one? I mean, what if your soul just blows out and you cease to exist?” He squeezed the handrail. His knuckles were white. “I don’t want that.”
As the mother of a child that she very much wanted to see again, Jordan didn’t know what to say. It’d be easy to break down, to voice her fears, but she couldn’t. She was the leader, and she needed to appear strong, confident, even when she felt like curling into a ball and weeping. “It’s normal to be scared,” she said tentatively.
He nodded, but she knew she hadn’t convinced him, just as she hadn’t been able to lift Craig out of his doldrums, her husband’s constant state in the last years of their marriage. Don’t think of that. Not now. Sighing, she rested her hand on Ben’s forearm and squeezed. “Hang in there. Stay strong for me. I need you. You’re doing a great job—a fantastic job. Keep it up.”
His face creased into a haggard smile. “Thanks.”
She gave him another squeeze and tried to return his smile. Then she pulled herself up the stairs.
Numb, she stepped around Brian’s blanket-draped body and trudged into the cockpit. The instruments were indeed powered, and she intended to take advantage of that.
“This is United Flight Fifty-eight,” she said into the radio handset. “Does anyone read?”
There was no side-tone, the sound in the speaker that indicated the radio was working. She tried all the radios, and various frequencies, but with the same frustrating result. Her hand slid down to the console between the seats. Even if the radios didn’t work, maybe the transponder would be functional and would bring help in their direction—wherever that was.
First, she dialed in “7500” on the aircraft’s transponder, and followed it with the code “7700.” The emergency numbers were used to alert air traffic control that they had both a hijacking-in-progress and an emergency. Only after transmitting her emergency messages did she notice that the tall, dark-eyed man was standing outside, in front of the plane. More importantly, he was alone. The goons who had accompanied him before were nowhere to be seen. The albino woman was absent, too.
Hands on his hips, he waited patiently for her attention. When he saw that she watched him, he withdrew his gun—or what she assumed was a gun—from his belt and laid it on the floor. A gesture of peace? Palm toward her, fingers spread, he raised his right hand. He paused, as if expecting her to respond.
She mirrored his gesture, and somehow withheld the powerful urge to show him her middle finger.
He brought his hand to his mouth and then pointed at her. He wanted to talk to her. Well, she could certainly do that without letting him inside, she thou
ght.
Walking away, he disappeared from view under the fuselage of the aircraft. Then it hit her: Door 1-L. It was the only door that didn’t have a slide! An unprotected entrance.
Her heart flipped in her chest, and she dashed out of the cockpit, leaping over Brian’s body. Bolting downstairs, she shouted, “Take your stations!” The flight attendants echoed her call. Passengers and crew darted in all directions. The children—there were fourteen under twelve, three of those infants—took shelter in the bulkhead between economy and business class, along with three pregnant women to watch them.
The efficiency of their defensive preparations surprised Jordan. Many passengers had passed the hours sleeping, having succumbed to shock, exhaustion, and poor air quality. Others showed symptoms resembling those of motion sickness. Already the air was rank with the odor of feces and vomit. Before long, all their lavatories would be clogged and unusable. But when called upon to defend the plane, none of that mattered. “Natalie, Ben, we need a slide-raft at One-Left! Now—”
Mid-shout, she crashed into Dillon, the red-haired Irishman. He was slim, but he was as solid as a bank safe. She stumbled backward and fell hard on her rear. A businessman caught Dillon, but the AED he’d clutched went flying—into the hands of one of the Marines, Garrett Brown, who caught the defibrillator like a football.
From where she was sprawled in the middle of the first-class aisle, Jordan felt as if she were watching a screwball comedy. Unfortunately, her sense of humor was at an all-time low. Would this have happened to the typical, Hollywood-version, six-foot-plus, gray-haired airline captain with the Oklahoma twang? She doubted it.
The Marine, Garrett, helped her to her feet. Her chest stung and her eyes watered as she tried to catch her breath. Then he gave her the AED, and she balanced it in her shaking hands as Dillon apologized profusely. “I’m sorry, Captain. But I couldn’t wait to tell you. It’s ready.”
Jordan’s eyes shifted to the device in her arms. “You mean it works?”
Dillon grinned. “I had to cannibalize my laptop and a couple of cell phones, but, yes, I think it’ll work beautifully.”
“It’ll shock someone?”
“It’ll shock the bloody hell out of someone.”
“Will it . . . kill someone?” she asked carefully.
“Depends on where you aim it and how long you hold it there.” Dillon’s singsong brogue made her wish he was describing purple horseshoes and four-leaf clovers instead of how to electrocute another human being.
The flight attendants had gathered around them. “What’s going on?” Ben asked.
“One of them wants to talk to us. Again.”
Frightened murmurs rippled through the crowd of eavesdroppers.
“This time he’s alone. And I think we do need to open a line of communication.”
The murmurs turned into shouts. Not for the first time, Jordan wished she was deep in the anonymous sea of onlookers and not in the spotlight—not the leader forced into making life-or-death decisions for all of them. “He’s alone, and he made a big show of putting down his weapon. Now he’s down there, waiting for us to open One-Left. Is a slide ready?” The folded and stowed slide rafts were heavy, but they were designed to be ported from door to door if necessary.
Ann called over the crowd. “It’s ready to go.”
“Good.”
Ben tugged nervously on his sleeves. “Now what, Captain?”
Jordan sighed. “Conditions are poor and growing worse. So far, no one’s come to our aid or answered our distress call. None of the cell phones work. The airplane radios don’t work. We’re trapped in this . . . thing, and we don’t know how long they intend to hold us here. Do you agree?”
“Our water and food won’t last forever,” Ann conceded. “And the babies will need milk.”
Ben echoed those concerns. “The rear lavatories and two forward ones are already full and locked. By the end of the day, we’ll lose the rest.”
“Then I say we have no choice but to talk to him.” Grim, Jordan lifted the sunshade covering the window nearest 1-L. Through the inch-high slit, she saw the tall man waiting for her below the door, his arms crossed over his chest. At the movement of the shade, his gaze jerked upward. She snapped the covering closed and turned to her crew. “But no one says we have to let him come aboard. We can shout to each other through the open exit. Keep me covered with whatever weapons we have. If any of his buddies look like they’re going to come aboard, or shoot, or set off explosives, we deploy the slide.”
Natalie raised her hand.
Jordan nodded. “A question?”
“No. An idea: Let’s take him hostage.”
Jordan’s jaw dropped. Natalie’s flawless nut-brown skin was accentuated by dozens of tiny braids worn pulled back into a thick ponytail, revealing an open, pretty face that was totally at odds with her aggressive suggestion. “You want me to take him hostage?” Jordan asked.
“Well, yes. Not just you. We’ll all help.”
Dillon waggled the AED paddles. “Once we get him on the plane, we can incapacitate him.”
A squeak bubbled up in Jordan’s throat. She listened, stunned, as one of the two doctors offered, “I saw Valium in the emergency medical kit. Once you get him pinned, I’ll give him an injection. It’ll put him right out.”
“And then we’ll have one of them,” Natalie summed up. “There’s nothing like a little leverage.”
“Leverage.” Jordan snorted. “He won’t be easy to overpower.” She doubted the guy had an ounce of body fat.
“The stun gun,” Ann reminded her.
“Right.” Jordan almost blushed. In the quest for do-it-yourself methods of attack, she’d forgotten about the best weapon she had. She withdrew the gun from her pocket, testing the weight of it in her hand.
“The Advanced Taser—the third generation of Taser Technology conducted energy weapons,” Ben said, as if reciting text. “Capable of sending a series of electrical signals called Taser waves or T-waves similar to those used by the brain to communicate with the body. Like radio jamming, the T-waves overpower the normal electrical signals within the body’s nerve fibers.”
Everyone stared at the purser as he droned on, a faraway look in his dark brown eyes. “The human target instantly loses control of his body and cannot perform coordinated action, falling to the ground.” He lifted his brows. “I guess it’ll do the job.”
Jordan whistled softly. “That was almost word for word out of the training tech manual.”
“It was.” He shrugged. “I have a photographic memory. It comes in handy sometimes.”
“Yeah. I bet it does.” She stored away the discovery about Ben.
Natalie spoke up. “Once he’s down, we have handcuffs to keep him there. Plenty of them.”
“Exactly.” The nylon cuffs were a staple of every aircrew member’s suitcase. They used them for everything from quick-fixing broken seats to quelling unruly passengers. Jordan was pretty sure they’d be the first airline crew to use the handcuffs to take a hostage, though. “So we incapacitate him, cuff him, and drug him. Then we’ve got our hostage. At that point, we’ll be able to negotiate for his release—and hopefully ours.”
Everyone fell silent. Jordan pushed her hair away from her forehead. Was she doing the right thing? Hell, what was the right thing?
Her gaze drifted toward the still-closed door. The man was out there, waiting. He was probably wondering why she hadn’t appeared yet. She blinked away an image of him lying bound and unconscious on the floor of the main cabin and forcibly replaced it with one of herself, back home, burying her face in Boo’s hair. The thought fortified her.
“Ben,” she said. “I’ve got extra handcuffs in my flight bag upstairs. Brian had some, too. Bring them downstairs and have them ready to go. Oh, and the crash ax, too. You’ll find it in the cockpit, left side, next to the fire extinguisher.” It was a heavy, sharp killer of an ax. She couldn’t imagine they’d have to use it. But like Dillon’s
turbocharged AED, it would be a good deterrent and a welcome addition to the Taser.
Coolly she glanced at everyone in turn. “If this goes badly, we’re dead meat—you know that, right?”
“We’re dead meat any way you cut it if we don’t do something soon,” Ben said.
Ann wrinkled her nose. “Enough with the food talk. We’ve got too much of it rotting in the galleys as it is.” They all laughed, despite feeling anything but lighthearted.
When Ben returned, Jordan handed the Taser to Garrett. Though he was an admin specialist, he was, after all, a Marine. “You know how to use one of these, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When he climbs inside, nail him.”
Garrett’s hazel eyes sparked. “Yes, ma’am!”
“Everyone else, stand clear.” The crowd backed up. Jordan said a silent prayer. Then she reached for the door handle with both hands and yanked it open.
Chapter Six
When the forwardmost hatch of the refugees’ craft finally opened, Kào saw the blond woman standing in the opening. It was then he knew he’d been correct in assuming that she was the leader.
He slipped on the translation glasses. The other pair awaited use, protected in its case.
“I’m ready to talk,” she shouted down to him.
Text scrolled in front of his vision: her words presented in his alphabet and language, Key, the common dialect of the Alliance. I am ready to talk.
Her smile was false. But he read no threat in her eyes as she gestured for him to come up to where she waited.
It made perfect sense; distance made it difficult to converse. Using aching muscles that disagreed with his demand for exertion, he wheeled the movable stand to rest against the vessel’s gray and blue fuselage. As he rode the ascending platform, a headache reminded him that after all the months in solitary confinement, his tolerance for being among people, interacting with them, talking, relating, engaging, all waned after a few hours.
